


a place called home is just a memory away

by Cunninglinguist



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drinking, Epistolary, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Memories, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Some Descriptions of Violence, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: I love you as my friend. I love you as my brother in arms. I love you as my family. I love you in the way I’m meant to love a wife. You are everything to me. Pick a man, they said. I pick you every time. You picked me, too, because we were best mates. Because we worked well together. Because I think, maybe, that you loved me, too.Will writes to Tom.
Relationships: Lance Corporal Blake/Lance Corporal Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 24
Kudos: 64





	a place called home is just a memory away

Dear Tom,

Never in my life could I have imagined how difficult it would be to start this letter. And I mean _start_ in every sense--it took me ages to figure out how I wanted to address the bloody thing, if you can believe that. The sheer volume of wadded up paper in the bin (and, regrettably, on the floor next to the bin) is a testament to that difficulty, and to how silly I feel writing this in the first place. Even sillier is that I had to nearly make my way through two very generous fingers of whisky just to get myself to actually entertain the notion of writing this letter. Now that the whole drink is gone, I’m finally ready to do it. Silly as anything. Perhaps _silly_ isn’t the right word for it, but I don’t know what is. 

Truthfully, I don’t know how to feel, Tom, other than feeling like I might bloody burst at the seams if I don’t get this out.

I still can’t quite believe I’ve been home for weeks now. It’s perfectly lovely—regular baths, clean clothes, my sister’s cooking (she’s gotten very good, her kidney pie is the stuff of dreams), being surrounded by family. A roof over my head, a real bed, and no mud or bastard rats in sight (dry shoes are a luxury I won’t soon overlook again!). Settling into a routine, or trying to. Just being at home, far from the front lines. 

The funny thing is, after being away for so long, after enduring all that I’ve endured, home doesn’t quite feel like home anymore. It feels almost blasphemous to put the words to paper, but here I am. I wonder if you’d feel the same. I think you might. I’m the odd puzzle piece that can’t quite slot into place. I’m a tenement whose facade has been completely remade, meanwhile its hollow insides rot and crumble. 

I went off to war, and someone else returned. 

It’s not like I can talk about it, the trenches, the war, the men, the fighting the rats the blood the constant ringing in your ears the stench the chaos—

_You._

I can’t talk about any of it. And why the hell would I? My family would be horrified, and to be the cause of putting these terrible images in their heads...I could never forgive myself. Why should it be up to them to bear the brunt of my pain, when they can’t begin to understand? And thank God for that lack of understanding, I hope it stays that way. No one should have to go through what I went through. What _we_ went through. 

The expectation that I resume normalcy in any way is, in my opinion, absurd. How can I begin to even pretend that anything is the same as it was before France? 

I’m doing it, mind you. Fairly well, I think...though the sadness in my sister’s eyes, in my eldest nephew's eyes, when they look at me, when they think I can’t see them, perhaps tells a different story. Sometimes I’m simply too exhausted to fake it. I’m only human.

At least I’ve started work down at the bakery, where they like me well enough. And I like the work well enough. I particularly enjoy the hours, you know I’ve always been an early bird. It’s even easier to get up now, since my sleep is so often troubled. If I can sleep at all, it’s usually interrupted by nightmares that are so real I can taste the blood in the air, feel the dirt from a shell flying in my face.

I’d be lying if I told you that writing this wasn’t a way for me to avoid sleeping. I’m tired, don’t get me wrong, but the idea of lying down in this soft bed, with a pillow and blanket, it’s…

Sometimes I just say fuck the bed and sleep on the floor. It comes easier that way, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t wreck my neck come morning. Just like France, right?

It’s tough not talking about it. It’s not like I don’t know plenty of men in my exact situation, and even if I didn’t, I meet them all the time. We can talk about small things over a pint, even joke about the many trials and tribulations of attempting to sleep in a soft bed, but no one really wants to get into it. Why would they want to relive all the bad things, the things that can never be unseen? The experiences we can’t unlive? I often wonder if I’m not mad for wanting to talk about it. Maybe it’s just not meant to be discussed.

I suppose that’s why I’m writing a letter that you will never read. 

Since you’ll never read it, and since I’ll likely burn this in the morning to prevent anyone else from finding it, I’m going to write some things into truth. Sort of like a confessional. 

I miss you. 

I miss you terribly. I miss you more than I thought it was possible to miss a person, especially someone who………………..

I don’t know how to finish this sentence, and I’m not scrapping another perfectly good piece of paper to start the whole thing over again. But God, I miss you. Thinking about you is like pressing on a bruise, but not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. I think about your laugh, the way your face got all red when you drank.

Your surplus of useless knowledge. To this day, I don’t know how you crammed all of those facts into that head of yours! The literary references, the animal knowledge, the plant minutiae…all the species of cherries, and cherry blossoms. 

I think about the cherry blossoms often. I never got to tell you why. 

And of course I remember your jokes! You were always making me laugh, even when all I wanted to do was cry. The stories you kept pulling out of your arse, one after the other! I’d think, fuck me, there can’t be another one! He simply _can’t_ have another one! But there was, and you did, and I was so grateful for them, every last one. I can still remember loads of them. That one about the pastor got me every time. Oh, hell. I think you had a few of those...the one with the chicken loose in the churchyard! The first time you told that, I nearly got myself clocked upside the head, I was laughing so hard! I’m laughing now. Since you can’t hear it... hahaha!! I loved your stories. I still love them.

I think about your face, too. You couldn’t tell a lie to save your life, too bloody expressive. Especially your eyes. They got all crinkly about the corners when you were smiling, truly smiling. The way you crossed your arms when you got pissed off, sometimes because of something I said. Your dear little belly that couldn’t be diminished by all the radical rationing in the world. 

I think about the way you accepted me for who I am. It took me a long time to write that sentence, which probably sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. When I wanted quiet, you’d be quiet. You’d lie beside me, tilting your helmet over your face so I’d think you were sleeping, and not feel badly for being piss poor company. When I drank, you drank with me, and if you didn’t want to, you never made me feel poorly about wanting to get a bit more pissed, a bit more numb. Sometimes, when I just needed to sit, you’d sit with me. I never told you how important those little moments were to me. You brought humor to my stoicism, determination to my frustration, levity to my gravity. We worked so well together. That’s why I knew we’d be life-long

Sorry for just ending that sentence. I had to step away for a moment. It’s hot here, even with all the windows open. I promise these droplets are my sweat, not my tears.

I don’t know why I said that. They are my tears, all of them. I want to be honest here. This is the only place where I _can_ be honest. It’s also the only way I can feel like I’m talking to you.

I’m glad I got to hold your hand. I hate the way it happened, but...I’m glad that I know the way your fingers fit between mine, and that your palm is just a bit smaller than mine. It’s sort of perfect, isn’t it? 

Sure, I’d helped you out of the trench, and up out of ditches. I’d hauled you over walls, loads of times, and vice versa, but those moments were all so quick, too run of the mill for me to notice. Now, of course, I wish I’d committed every single touch to memory, from your strength leveraged against mine, to the weight of you, to the tightness of your grasp. This must all sound atrociously maudlin, but it’s authentic. I hope you can forgive me.

And I’d never, ever say this to anyone, but I wish I’d taken the time to notice just how well we fit together. It was so natural, I almost forgot that it was far from standard for me to just fall in with someone, especially during that time. I took it for granted. You were so tough, always there, helping me, watching my back, and I never thought I’d be here, without you.  
Now I’m haunted by blank pockets in my mind where I can see your face, and hear your voice, but I can’t for the life of me recall the feeling of you. I should have paid more attention, the way I paid attention after it happened, and you were bleeding, and there was nothing I could do.

I’m still so fucking furious that I didn’t kill him right away. It was your fault, all that misplaced compassion, you fucking imbecile, how could you have thought…….and how could _I_ have thought?! I knew better, didn’t I, and I should have just done it but I didn’t, because I was listening to _you!!!_

What’s done is done, I know there’s no use getting angry. I’m not still, not really. Like I’ve been told thousands of times, it’s best not to dwell on these things. And it’s true--how could anyone carry on like that, all bogged down by memories and sorrow?

Best to save the memories and the sorrows for when it’s all done, and there’s time.

God forgive me, I cherish our last moments together as much as I loathe them. The strife, the emergencies, those were the times when we could be honest in our shared desperation. When you reached for me, and you clung to me, I reached back. I clung back. 

I cling still.

I curse myself for biting my tongue—you were always the talker—and leaving so much unsaid. I wanted to tell you everything, I wanted you to know, but I was scared—scared of how it would change everything. The tiny hope that you might live quelled my voice, too. The prayer that I might see another day with you. That I might get another opportunity to joke with you, to fight alongside you, to tell you eventually, when it was right, or at least better. 

But I’ll never get that opportunity. I only have this letter, and the quiet, and the dead of night. You know I’m not generally prone to excessive sentiment, so you of all people should know how much I struggle to write this. I wonder if it would have been easier to say it, to just spit it out, quickly, like tearing gauze from a wound, then it would be _spoken_ and _out_ and as irrevocable as the ringing of a bell. 

I miss you. Dearly. Every day. But I’ve already said that. What I really want to say is….

_I love you._

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you as my friend. I love you as my brother in arms. I love you as my family. I love you in the way I’m meant to love a wife. You are everything to me. Pick a man, they said. I pick you every time. You picked me, too, because we were best mates. Because we worked well together. Because I think, maybe, that you loved me, too. 

You’d look at me sometimes, when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t think I was imagining what I saw in your gaze, because it was reflected in my own when I thought _you_ weren’t paying attention. Were you? 

Did you know? 

I hate to think about what would have happened if you knew, mostly because I’d like to believe that you would have reciprocated my feelings, and the thought of all that wasted time, all that missed life, all because we were both too scared to say something is _unbearable._

So instead, I think about the feeling of your hand in mine. I selectively omit the squelch of your blood, the stench of smoke, decay, gun powder, and death, the sight of the stars leaving your eyes. I think about the weight of your body in my arms, and pretend that I was holding you as my lover. The way I’ve always wanted to hold you. 

When my mind is kind to me, I dream about kissing you. It would have been explosive, Tom, I’m convinced—fire and trust and love and lust, your lips on mine, your skin on mine. Your hair was so soft (I know this because you fell asleep on my shoulder and it brushed my face). I would have loved to bury my hands in it, to feel your impossibly clean-shaven baby face against my stubbly jaw (I’d have scratched you, I’m sorry to say). I dream of the way you’d taste, your teeth and tongue and lips, your gasps and sighs, the delicate flesh of your neck, your sweat, your……….

I realize, by the overwhelming heat in my cheeks, that this letter is now verging on pornographic, but you were never one to shy away from all things bawdy and racy, were you? Although it’s not quite what I was aiming to showcase, I think you’d have rather appreciated this side of me! 

It bears repeating that what I felt for you extended far beyond the physical. If you’d decided you didn’t want any of that with me, I’d have been perfectly happy to carry on without it. In fact, I’d give it up entirely if it meant I’d get to see you again. I’d give up just about anything to see you again. 

I’ve never married, as you know. Sometimes my sister makes comments, my mother, too. Even some of the blokes down the pub get to wondering. I only ever say something akin to, “Oh, it’s just not happened for me yet.” I always leave it open-ended, as if someday, there’s a possibility of it happening. Truth be told, the idea of finding someone I could share myself with the way I shared myself with you is unfathomable to the point that it sickens me. I don’t want someone else. I don’t want to think about wanting someone else. I just want you. I know it’s unconventional, to put it delicately. I know we’d have to hide. I know it would be doomed. I don’t care. I don’t care. _I don’t care._ I love you, and my guts are all twisted up with rage and my heart is weighted down with the grief of knowing that I love you, and that I can never have what I want. And that I’ll have to find some way of moving on. From the war, from you.

But not right now.

Right now, I’m thinking about second chances. I’m wishing so hard it hurts, and dreaming even harder. If I could trade my soul to get you back, just for a year, even a day, oh, my dearest Tom, I’d love you with my entire heart, completely, with my entire body, fully, with the entirety of a soul that’s no longer my own. I’d try to give you even a fraction of all that you’ve given me. Your bravery, your acceptance, your humor, your strength, your care. Your love.

I can’t tell you what I believe anymore, but I’d like to think that we’ll see each other again one day. Maybe you’ll be waiting for me, somewhere nice, with a lot of flowering trees. Maybe you’re peeking over my shoulder and reading this ghastly letter as I write it, and I ought to be terribly embarrassed. Don’t worry, I already am embarrassed, and I submit myself completely to your ridicule. 

I did write your mum, by the way, just like you asked. She wrote me back. She’s invited me to come visit, to stay at your childhood home (even your brother is on board, so I’m told), and I’m inclined to accept.

I so wish you were going to be there. I’d have loved to receive the full Tour de Chez Blake from you. Suppose I’ll have to write again, and tell you how it all goes. 

Perhaps your cherry blossoms will be in bloom. I hope they are. 

Yours, always,

Will

**Author's Note:**

> This movie ruined my life!!
> 
> This was so different from anything I've written here, and I absolutely adored writing it & using it as a way to explore many facets of grief and get some practice with the epistolary style. If you enjoyed this, please please please drop a comment and sustain me.
> 
> Title from this gorgeous [song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13FCZCMbihs) Surprise, I'm a masochist!
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr dot com](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/) so we can weep about this movie and this ship, if you're into that.


End file.
